


strange bedfellows

by orphan_account



Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Cultural Misunderstandings, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, On Hiatus, Post-Film, T'Challa Is A Good Man, Wakandan Technology, everett is dragged into wakandan politics, everpanther, he should be afraid, learning new things, major spoilers for black panther, okoye plots murder, post-black panther, roasting as an expression of love, shuri is my child i love her, this fic will have mcu characters but will be mostly bp-centric, well ross's murder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 02:54:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13731606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Wakanda cannot remain in the shadows any longer. It is time for my people to join the rest of this world." He turns, something like mischief in his midnight eyes. "I would like you to be a part of it."Ross lifts pale eyebrows, surprised. "Me?" he asks. "What do you need me to do?"T'Challa smiles."We are in need of a...representative."No one said introducing Wakanda to the rest of the world would be easy. But no one said, either, that it would happen like this.





	1. coda

**Author's Note:**

> i. loved. this. movie. and need more of it. more of all its characters, of its colors and effects and its story. so i wrote this. ;) hope you guys enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Killmonger's wake, T'Challa takes the first steps to bring his country to the global stage.

**chapter one**

 

He holds the body that used to house his cousin close to his chest, and turns away from the Wakandan sunset. It is still warm with the heat of life, of stilling blood, and it is lighter than T’Challa knows it should be, for a body of such muscle and strength. He walks into a lift, goes to the surface, and carries Erik across the ground. There, his people are waiting, the battle long over. W’Kabi stands beside Okoye, a welcome sight; the Dora Milaje and Wakanda’s warriors, standing tall, together. The Jabari, too, stand watching, eyes wreathed in painted white smoke. They all follow him with their eyes, silent. They have been waiting for him. Only fallen shields and swords speak of the fight that occurred before. Fallen shields, swords, and Wakandan blood.

“We will bury him,” T’Challa says. His voice is low and strong. His voice is a king’s.

No one questions him.

* * *

The burial is short. They bury him with their ancestors, with the fathers and mothers of his father's kin. Of Erik's kin.

“May you find our people in the plane,” he whispers in the mother tongue, as Shuri and Okoye and Nakia hum and murmur the sacred words into the air, the voices of his people passing into the swiftly falling shadow of night. “May you find peace, Erik, son of N’Jobu, son of T’Chavake.”

They cover his body with Wakandan dirt, and T’Challa blesses the earth that falls upon it. Fashions a marker, carves a name with vibranium claws into acacia wood. He will return with a better marker, soon, but for now, this one will do.

Not far from there, they mark another grave for Shiya, in the hallowed plots of the Dora Milaje, marked carefully with river stones. Okoye presses her lips to the soft earth, whispering blessings that even T’Challa does not have the honor of knowing.

He stands after planting the second marker, eyes casting to the stars, and then looks back at his people. They watch him, quiet as before. Waiting for him to speak.

“Where is...” There is a face missing in the crowd. “Where is Ross?”

Shuri frowns, the solemnity in her eyes flickering into confusion, and growing realization. “I...he was in the lab. He shot down the last ship, I heard him say it, I told him to run-” T’Challa steps forward, watching his sister speak faster and faster, “-His chip went out, but I thought it must have been the explosion, I thought he made it _out-”_

T’Challa doesn’t wait to listen. He runs, but she chases after him.

* * *

He beats her dashing from the ship, and skips the lift. He throws himself into the vibranium mine without hesitation, sight zeroing in on the shattered window of Shuri’s lab several yards below, and uses the magnetic bridges to propel himself directly inside. The inside of the lab is scorched, riddled with bullets and the wreckage of combusted equipment, and he finds Ross quickly.

The man is lying motionless, form thrown haphazardly beneath an overturned workstation. His pale skin is smeared in smoke. T’Challa can see a dark spot blooming in the low grey of his Wakandan jumper, just above his right hip. His left arm is curled at an awkward angle beneath him. He is very still.

T’Challa rushes to his side, moves to his knees. He reaches gently for the man but his hands still, floating just above the man’s shoulder. There’s a fine tremble working through his hands. He does not- He does not want to be too late, he has already buried two of his people, he cannot bury a friend as well--

“Ross,” he whispers, and he tries not to think, _what did I last say to him?_ Tries not to see his father’s body, half hidden beneath smoking rubble, he cannot--

Ross breathes, oxygen passing hoarsely from his lips. His head moves slightly against the floor, and T’Challa lets out a sigh that leaves him almost boneless. He thinks a prayer, and moves again to touch the man, check his injuries--

“What in the hell are you doing?” a voice hisses, and in comes Shuri, looking just as relieved as he feels but also, looking at him like he’s an idiot. “Do not move him, idiot! He could have injuries to the spine!”

“I was not-” T’Challa protests, and Shuri makes an angry shushing noise. She moves to another workstation, desperately looking for something, and below him, Ross groans, redirecting his attention.

“Ow.” Ross coughs. "Ow. Hell." Blood wells, a tear of red beading at the corner of his lip. " _Ow._ ”

“Do not move, Agent Ross,” he says lowly, scooching a little closer to the man, but carefully not touching him for fear of Shuri’s wrath. “You will be alright. Shuri and I are going to take care of you.”

“Again?” Ross asks, voice ashy and cracked. His blue eyes flicker open, settle dazedly on T’Challa’s own. “Didn’t even get to thank you for the first time yet.”

T’Challa smiles. “Perhaps we can arrange for a membership card. Your tenth surgery will be free.”

Ross coughs again, this time in a laugh. His eyes glimmer with mirth, hazy as they are in pain. “That- that was a joke. You made another joke. At my expense. Ah. You’re a funny man, Your Highness.”

“The proper title is Your Majesty, Agent Ross,” T’Challa says, grinning despite himself.

“Sorry. Broken ribs, I think, Majesty. Little distracting.” Ross grunts, tries pitifully to sit up, and T’Challa shakes his head at the man as he pants in the effort.

“Shuri,” he says, somewhat testily.

“I’m _working_ on it,” she snaps.

“Try not to move, Ross,” T’Challa says, eyes falling worriedly on the sheen of sweat dewing the man’s brow.

“Didn’t- didn’t I say you could call me Everett, when we first met? You can do that.”

“Try not to move, Everett,” T’Challa says dryly. The man coughs again in a laugh, with a more concerning wheeze to his breathing.

“That counts as moving.”

“S-Sorry, Your Majesty.”

Shuri reappears with a scanner and a first aid kit. She waves it across his body, reading its output expertly. “Another broken white man for me to fix,” she mutters quickly, but not unkindly.

“Not another. Same one as before,” T’Challa reminds her, looking over to see her scanner’s results. Two broken ribs. Punctured lung. Fractured left ulna. Mild laceration on the lower torso, slight blood loss. Nothing beyond their means, but urgent nonetheless.

“Do- do you get a lot of broken white men?” Ross croaks. They both ignore him.

“He’ll be fine,” Shuri says, for some reason addressing T'Challa instead of Ross himself. Her eyes are calmer than before; she is in her element now. “Need to get him treated quickly, though. Put the medical table back into place, would you?”

He rises and does so, and Ross’s eyes follow him.

“I’m sorry it took us so long to get here,” he hears Shuri whisper when he turns away. His heart shifts in pride and in guilt. He’d been too distracted with grief to think of the living. They all had. They’d forgotten. He’d forgotten. What kind of king forgets someone like this? What kind of friend, what kind of man?

“Was it long?” Ross asks, as goodnaturedly as he can. It almost hurts T’Challa to hear. “Didn’t notice. Unconscious, I think, for a good while there.”

“I am still sorry. You will be fine, Agent Ross. Your injuries are easily treatable.”

“You’ve got tech that’ll heal a bullet to the spine in a day. I’m not worried about a few broken ribs.”

“Ready,” T’Challa says then, voice a little rough.

“Okay.” Shuri takes a stretcher, pulls it apart in her hands into two ends, with a blue stripe of plasma growing between them. She stretches the ends out in front of her until the beam is as long as Ross is tall, and then passes it over the man’s body. Ross watches wide eyed as the stretcher passes through him, completely intangible but for a shiver of electricity that lifts at his messy blond hair, and with the press of a button, Shuri activates the stretcher from beneath him.

“Whoa,” Ross says, as the stretcher becomes solid beneath him, begins to gently rise and hover. Shuri slowly directs him out from beneath the overturned workbench into the air, and tugs him with her to the medical bench where T’Challa is waiting.

“You guys...have the coolest stuff,” Ross says, body tired but eyes and smile bright, almost boyish with amazement.

“Yes, we do,” T’Challa says. “It won’t take long, Agent...Everett. Your pain will be over swiftly.”

“That sounds...mildly threatening.”

“Ignore him,” Shuri says. “He has terrible bedside manner.”

T’Challa shoots her a look, mouth twitching. “You will be alright,” he says to Ross, more reassuringly this time.

“I know,” Ross says. He turns to T’Challa. “I believe you.”

Something in the words makes T’Challa still, look back. He feels compelled, suddenly, to answer Ross’s sincerity with something of his own.

“Thank you," he says quietly. "For risking your life today. For fighting for my people.”

“Couldn’t...let that vibranium get out," Ross grunts. "Not with what Killmonger had planned for it. Lot of innocent people would have died. Not just Wakandans.” T’Challa nods slowly, and the glint in Ross’s eyes turns wry. “But...would have done it anyway. I owe you...Your Majesty. You brought me here, saved my life.” Shuri clears her throat, and Ross smiles, white teeth flecked slightly with blood. The sight makes T'Challa's heart twinge. “Both of you. ...Probably would have died if you hadn’t brought me here." Ross swallows, pale throat moving. "Know it can’t have been easy. To bring me here. To...risk your people’s secret.”

“You took a bullet saving Nakia’s life,” T’Challa says seriously. “I could- I would not have let you die. Not when I could save you.” It hadn't even really been a question, even with Okoye's protests.

Ross winces as Shuri jabs him with a syringe of something, but then looks back to T’Challa. His eyes are very blue, T’Challa thinks. Like the color of the ritual falls in the early morning.

“I...see,” Ross says slowly. Those eyes flicker behind a short flurry of blinking. “Well. Just acted on instinct.” There’s something in his voice that makes T’Challa frown, wonder if he said the wrong thing. Did Ross not find his deeds heroic? Or was it that- _oh._

“You are a good man, Everett. I would have saved you, regardless. Whether or not you jumped in front of Nakia.”

He means it. He knows Ross knows this too, when the man blinks again and looks up at him, surprised.

“You helped me hunt Barnes, when I thought him responsible for our father’s death. You helped to capture Klaue. You saved Nakia. And you risked your life again, to save what could have been countless lives, to help me take back Wakanda.” He smiles. “Shuri and I are only too grateful to fix you up again.”

“Who is doing the fixing, exactly?” Shuri asks, and T’Challa shrugs, unabashed. “You should be feeling the anesthetic soon, Agent Ross.”

“Oh, already feeling it,” Ross says, and the blue of his eyes is glassy, his smile loose. “Very good, very nice. Thank you.” He looks to T’Challa. “Your Majesty.”

“Go to sleep, Agent Ross,” T’Challa says, smirking at the euphoric look sweeping across the man’s face. “When you wake, you will be feel as right as rain.”

“Sounds good, Y’Majesty,” Ross mumbles. He makes a contented, sleepy noise, and T’Challa exchanges a grin with Shuri across him. Ross’s eyes flutter closed, and Shuri gently moves the agent’s arm, straightening it out so that she may start fixing the damage. Her eyes cut upwards from her work to T’Challa, and she inclines her head.

“I’ve got him. You can go.”

T’Challa hesitates, looking at the sleeping agent and feeling resistance tumbling around inside him at the idea of leaving, and she rolls her eyes at him. “I will fetch you when he wakes, but he won’t be doing that for a few hours. Go fetch our mother from the Jabari mountains, will you, before she freezes.”

He sighs. “Very well, sister,” he says, and with lingering eyes, turns to leave. He will be back soon. He and Everett have some things to discuss when the man wakes.

Erik was right. Wakanda cannot hide its technology and power from the world forever. He has a duty, to protect his people. Wherever they are. He cannot allow people to suffer when he has the resources to help.

Wakanda will no longer live in fear. Instead, it will emerge from the shadows, and T’Challa knows exactly where he wants to start.

But he will need help.

*          *          *

Things are changing. He tells his advisors as much. The resistance he encounters is bitter, entrenched in tradition, but after the upheaval Erik put them through, they are easier to convince than they would have been before. The world is catching up to them, around their ears, and they cannot afford to simply wait to be found.

He is going to contact the United Nations in a week's time.

Nakia does not want to stay.

"We will finally be able to reach out to the people who need it most," she whispers to him, hand on his cheek. It is soft and warm and T'Challa covers it with his own, resisting the urge to close his eyes. "We will finally have the resources we need to make a real difference in Africa. Anywhere there is suffering. I cannot stop now, not when I finally have the chance to create the change I've always worked for."

He knew she would say this. He knew the moment he opened Wakanda's doors, she would rush off into the world to save as many people as she could. He knew, and it is why he loves her. And because he loves her, he wishes her luck, pressing her fingers to his lips, and she smiles at him. Kisses his cheek. His eyes do close, then.

No matter how she loved him, Nakia never wanted to be queen. She was always meant to be in the thick of things. Tearing the world apart for freedom.

She goes, but not because he lets her.

*          *          *

"Wakanda cannot remain in the shadows any longer. It is time for my people to join the rest of this world." He turns, something like mischief in his midnight eyes. "I would like you to be a part of it."

Ross lifts pale eyebrows, surprised. His wounds, as promised, are fully healed, and he looks oddly  _in_ place in the empty throne room, dressed in all black, Wakandan tunic draping loosely around his neck and shoulders, fixed with silver clasps. "Me?" he asks. "What do you need me to do?"

T'Challa smiles.

"We are in need of a...representative."

Ross stares, blue eyes fixed on him. His mouth opens briefly, and briefly, no words come out. T'Challa fights the urge to smile wider. "A representative? What do you mean? A... _representative_ representative? A political representative?"

"For Wakanda, yes," T'Challa says promptly. "You would be an official emissary for foreign relations, and made a royal advisor. You would be a chosen spokesperson for Wakanda, in the United Nations and in all international spheres, when I ask."

"I..." Ross starts, and clears his throat. "Your Majesty, I am hardly qualified-"

"You have more experience with Wakanda than any outsider has been granted in hundreds of years," T'Challa says patiently. He moves to the throne and sits in it, and doesn't miss how Ross automatically follows him and stands closer, even as distracted as he is.

"In hundreds of-" Ross looks momentarily stunned, before shaking his head. "I- I am honored you would consider me for such a position, but-"

"You should be," T'Challa says. "You earned the respect of my other advisors when you risked your life to protect this country. That is a hard thing to achieve for a white man in Wakanda. I'm surprised they did not suggest I dispose of you immediately at the border."

Ross crosses his arms. "Ah, well, that's appreciated," he huffs, and T'Challa smirks. Ross blinks, a little embarrassed at himself, quickly adding, "Your Majesty." The man sighs, shoulders slumping. "You see, I'm a little...unpolished for a royal assignment-"

"You are American," T'Challa says dismissively, waving a hand. Ross huffs lowly again, a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. "You will learn the proper form of address in time. As it stands, I do not mind it. Few people address me as candidly as you, Agent Ross."

"Right," Ross says, strained. "But  _politics-"_

"Your work with the Central Intelligence Agency has provided you the necessary skills to manage tense situations with difficult parties, and no doubt, taught you with countless in-depth dossiers on several countries and their current climates. Countries that Wakanda would like to work with, countries where our technologies can be best served. You have knowledge of alliances. Trade wars. Armed conflicts, tyrants, dignitaries...need I go on?"

Ross sighs heavily. "No. It's true that I have...a knowledge of world politics and current events, but my experience is- I'm an  _agent,_ a direct mediator, a _soldier."_

"A strategist, a realist, a planner, a man who can do well under duress," T'Challa counters. "Everett. I know of no man I would rather select for this position."

Ross shakes his head again, voice still slightly disbelieving even as something in his eyes sobers in thought. "Why me?"

"Because you are a good man."

"That's not-"

"Because I trust you."

Ross stops, stares. His light eyebrows have crawled up his forehead, blue eyes wide and open. "But I...I am not Wakandan," he says slowly. "I am an...outsider, as you said."

T'Challa's smile fades. He straightens in his throne, eyes moving about the room around them. The room where his father once sat, where his ancestors once ruled, protectors and Black Panthers of Wakanda who were loyal to the end. He wants, very much, to make them proud. He wants to protect Wakanda, and elevate it higher than it is even now.

It will be a dangerous effort.

"My father...he told me, once, that to be a good king, I need to surround myself with those that I trust." His eyes move to level with Ross, who is still staring at him, face serious. "If I am to take my country and lift it from obscurity, I must have those I can trust with the lives of my people to carry Wakanda through this transition. It is true that there are many who need our help. Many who will benefit from our technologies, our resources. But there are also many who would take what we have, without remorse and without mercy, and there are those who would seek to destroy my country simply because it is: a peaceful, strong, bountiful country, with people untouched by war. There are snakes lying in wait for Wakanda. To weed them out, I need to have those I trust most at my side."

"And you...you think I'm one of those people?" Ross asks quietly. "I'm an American. I have loyalty to my country, as well. I work for the CIA. I am...a spy, a liar. A snake by trade."

"Who better, then, to recognize others when you see them?" T'Challa quips, with a small, forced smile. When Ross doesn't not return the smile, T'Challa sighs and tips his head. "You have done nobly by my people, and you have done nobly by my family. I will understand if you reject my offer, out of duty to your own country. I would consider you a trusted ally, nonetheless, because you have proved that you are a moral man. A good man, who would risk his life for others. You will find, that in an advisor...in a friend...I would require little else."

"Your Majesty..." Ross says slowly. "Even so...I. Well. Look at me. I'm a white American man. How...could I possibly be a good spokesman for your country?"

Ah. "Let me clarify, Agent Ross, your role. You will be a spokesman. One of many. Your primary role will be that of an advisor, also one of many. But you will be the only non-Wakandan in my cabinet. One with a critical perspective outside our traditions." He resists a smile at the quiet look of relief that passes across Ross's face. "I am the face of Wakanda. I am king. I am the African ruler of African people. I will call on you as an advisor to provide insight for how others perceive us. My people, my country, myself. You will be a voice for when some people look at me, see a black man speaking, and stop listening."

Ross widens his eyes, understanding. "I'd be your token white representative," he realizes, smirking slightly. "I get it."

T'Challa nods. "A true advisor with a different perspective that I believe essential for our transition. But in practical terms? Yes."

Ross meets his eyes. The planes of his face are cold and pale, so far removed from the reds and browns and golds of the throne room. But Wakanda's warmth has begun to seep into the man even in his short time here. His skin isn't as pale as it was even days before, when he was brought here. His people's prints have already made their mark on him. He is the first outsider to be permitted to Wakanda. The first to be dressed in Wakandan fashion, the first to be allowed into the throne room. The first to fight for them, the first to become trusted.

The first, he hopes, outsider to become a part of Wakanda's royal cabinet. The first to be allowed to speak on his people's behalf, to be allowed a voice in his ranks. His first ally, in Wakanda's transition from secret world to world power.

Ross swallows, looks away. Sighs, resignation traced into his features.

T'Challa braces himself.

"Is it too late, then," Ross begins tiredly, already put-upon. "To file my two-weeks notice with the agency?"

T'Challa _beams._

"I am afraid so. You start immediately," he says. He gets to his feet, moving towards the man, and Ross snorts. His eyes are lit from within, bright, youthful blue, at direct odds to the crinkles at their corners, the crisp darkness of his clothes, the pale of his skin.

Ross is going to stay.

"Hm. I suppose if I ever need another reference, the King of Wakanda could give me a good one."

"You can count on it, my friend," T'Challa says, clapping a hand on the man's shoulder. Ross grins at him, a rare full peal of white teeth, and shakes his head, already rueful. T'Challa's heart feels fit to burst.

"Okoye is going to be so pleased you are staying," he says, keeping a hand on the man's shoulder as they stroll from the throne room, and Ross's head falls into his hands.

"Oh, God. She's going to murder me my first day."

"Yes. Yes, this is very likely."

"Wonderful."

"Don't worry. You're one of my royal advisors, now. You actually fall under her protection."

Ross bursts out laughing, a dry, pleasant peal of sound that has T'Challa feeling terribly pleased. "I would like to be far away when you tell her that. Very far away. I'm pretty sure she's wanted to murder me since the first moment she saw me."

"She has. Ever since Klaue. Wanted to spear you to the table when you poked my chest. Okoye is very...protective."

" _That's_ what you were talking about?  _Spearing me?_ "

"It is Wakandan diplomacy. To spear, or not to spear." T'Challa levels him a grin. "You will learn that, too."

Ross smiles wryly back at him. "I guess I'll have to, won't I?"

T'Challa ignores the sun rising in his chest, and smirks. "I am sure you're a quick study, Ambassador."

" _Ambassador?_ " Ross echoes. He looks briefly heavenwards, running a hand over his face and leaving it briefly pressed over his eyes. "Oh my god."

"Wait until you see your quarters."

"My- how did you even know I would say _yes?_ " he demanded.

"I did not," T'Challa said honestly. "But I hoped."

Ross looks at him, still shaking his head, disbelief curled in the edge of his smile. But there's a beat and it fades, and Ross wavers in his step. T'Challa slows beside him. They come to a stop beside a broad window, and just outside, the sun is setting. The world is painted in orange and bleeding pink, earth green stained deeper emerald, tinged in purple beneath wisping cotton clouds. A beautiful sight, even to eyes that had seen it thousands of times. "I can't believe this. I'm an air force brat, I'm a...I'm a soldier, I can't imagine..." He trails off, looking out the window. He goes quiet, eyes moving across the same sight, and T'Challa watches his expression closely as the man drinks it in.

Ross looks out the window like he's seeing something beyond words, something beautiful and unreal. He may be a trained secret agent, a hardened soldier, but T'Challa could recognize in any man the way that Ross looks now, enraptured by something bigger than himself. His father looked the same way, at the same sight. His sister, elbow deep in her newest invention. Nakia, before women she's liberated, telling them to go home, telling them they are free. Okoye, as she trains the newest recruits to the Dora Milaje.

T'Challa has never been so sure of his choice.

"You will do my people proud. I have every confidence in you, Everett."

Ross tears his gaze from the horizon and looks back at him. The setting sun lights a burning streak of fire in his eyes. "I will do my best," he says.

T'Challa smiles. "That is all I can ask."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title insp: black panther's novelization. some quality t'challa and everett moments in there, bless.
> 
> I made up a name for the character that Erik killed in the finale. Does anyone know the character's real name, so I can credit it?
> 
> Regarding the idea of an American white male repping a black African country, I want to address this concern: Why Ross, why some white American dude that BP doesn't know that well? Certainly there are other qualified black voices to rep Wakanda, a black country? I understand the concern-- Black Panther is a movie where black people have power, all the power, because Wakanda is a black country and space. Space that is deserved and earned in Hollywood, space that is definitively _not_ white. 
> 
> Wakanda is not white. It is a black country with black people, black rulers. In this story, Ross will be the only white, non-Wakandan advisor out of many in T'Challa's royal cabinet. He is a trusted friend who will be permitted to speak for Wakanda in white spaces because T'Challa trusts him to, and only whenever T'Challa decides it would be easier, or more influential, if Ross did instead of T'Challa himself, which will be rare in this fic. In the comics, this the equivalent role Ross assumes, the token white foil through which white perceptions of blackness were deconstructed. 
> 
> I will try to emphasize that in this fic that Ross has power limited only to talking to press and in certain rooms, and only in terms of T'Challa's allowance and trust. And, as advisor, he will counsel T'Challa privately, and T'Challa will consider his opinion bc of Ross's experience _as_ a military American white guy will be useful in terms of estimating global perspectives. Ross's character will not be taking a position better suited for black voices in this fic.
> 
> T'Challa is the face of Wakanda. The face. The voice, the leader. That's important af. That's what BP means. If you guys as readers have concerns about my portrayal of racial issues and power dynamics in this fic, please express them to me, so I can be the best ally I can.


	2. preparations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wakanda's day of emergence is fast approaching, and T'Challa prepares for change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my friends, I'm blown away by the response I've received to this story. I'm so happy with just how _here_ this fandom is, bc goddamn do this movie and its characters deserve the love. Thank you guys so much.
> 
> I write to cope and I write to express. I write to celebrate the things I enjoy, and to have fun. My last intention is to offend, ignore, or erase the efforts and deserving nature of BP, its message, and the importance of its characters and story. If anyone ever feels as if my writing is antithetical to the work of an ally, please express your concerns to me, and I will do my very best to address them. I do not want to forget what this movie means, or what it represents to this country and beyond. Thank you for reading!

**chapter two**

It is three days until their international address in New York.

T’Challa has made the necessary calls, his advisors have burned the midnight oil on plans, on speeches, on political stances. It takes a while for them to stop talking altogether when Ross makes a suggestion, and even longer to respond to him. Ross does not speak up often, typically falls quiet to listen to the other voices in the room, but when he does speak he is confident and presents his arguments logically; T’Challa asks him once, how he feels speaking in their meetings, and Ross says that silence is better than being threatened to be fed to M’Baku’s children. “But most things are,” he’d said dryly, and T’Challa laughed so hard that others stared.

Shuri approaches him one morning at the start of his increasingly dwindling lunch break. There are dark circles beneath her bright eyes, and T’Challa would feel guilty about them if he didn’t know already that she would be up all night anyway. She has always been a night owl, content to burn at both ends if she had a project in mind. Which, she always does.

She is best of Wakanda. Her work deserves to be shared with the world. That doesn’t stop her from being an absolute brat, though, on many days.

“Brother,” she says, in that damnable disapproving tone he _knows_ she picked up from their mother, “Your agent refuses to drop by my lab for a check up, and apparently, he hasn’t eaten today. _Fix it._ ”

T’Challa blinks at her, before smiling at the genuine concern hiding behind her annoyance. It seems Ross has grown on them both.  Shuri wouldn’t have checked up on his meals, otherwise. How she did so, however, is a question that...he doesn’t really want to know the answer to. “He is not my agent anymore, sister. He is my advisor.”

“I don’t care what he is,” Shuri huffs. “I want him in my lab by the end of the day.”

“Yes, princess,” he says, shortly bowing, and she punches his arm. A smile breaks across her lovely face, but it catches on something unseen just as it reaches full luminosity.

“Things are going to be different, from now on,” she says. Her voice grows a little uncertain, and T’Challa remembers, not for the first time, how young she is. At seventeen, his sister is a princess, an inventor, a scientist. A genius. But she is also a child.

T’Challa has walked this earth for much longer than her, and himself quietly worries-- well, agonizes-- over the changes coming their way. He cannot imagine how it must feel to her, when so much of her experience of the world outside Wakanda is limited to the confines of a computer screen.

“Not so different,” he says gently, reaching for her shoulder. _When did she get so tall?_

“No. But different enough,” she says. T’Challa cannot disagree with that. Instead, he reaches for her. She grins, finally, and folds herself into his arms. He hugs her tight. She hugs him back, but only long enough for him to smile and muss her hair, and for her to shove him back.

“ _American,_ ” she commands then, pointing at him as she walks away, “My lab. Today.” He laughs, nods. It is always wise to do what Shuri asks, and to do it quickly.

He’d been intending on dropping by Ross’s quarters soon anyway, to check on his adjustment. And perhaps, just to speak with him. He makes one stop in the kitchens on his way to the man’s quarters, grabbing a plate of small sandwiches with fresh fruit from their royal gardens. The guest rooms are situated in the left wing of the palace, and Ross’s is the closest guest space to the advisor’s wing and his own royal wing, shared with his sister and mother.

As he gets close, he hears music. American rock music, a tune he recognizes playing at a respectable volume, and enters without knocking. The room is one of the nicer guest suites; he wanted Ross to feel less more like a guest and more like a permanent resident, so he arranged for the room to be outfitted with more creature comforts. The latest computer setup, a wall holocom and a personal one for Ross to carry around-- he had tried to use it to call Ross already, and after some fumbing and some amazed staring, he believes the man has gotten the hang of it-- and because none of Ross’s personal things would arrive for a while yet, he had commissioned a month’s worth of clothing for him, all Wakandan prints and styles. Blacks and greys and deep purples, hints of whites and greens. And blues. Of course. To appropriately represent his country abroad, T’Challa had said when Ross had protested the expense, to make him look like he had a place here.

T’Challa hopes, one day, Ross would feel himself that he did. He would always be welcomed, as long as T’Challa was king.

Ross is turned away from the door, head bent over his new desk, and did not hear T’Challa approach through the music. The song was louder in here, with thick, vibrant riffs from an electric guitar and a preserved sound. “... _And come on, come on, come on, come on...And take it! Just another little piece of my heart now, baby...”_

Ross’s hair is mussed, short blond and grey hairs pressed up and flattened on one side, as though he’d been leaning his head on a hand for a long period of time. His back was slightly bent, and before him were stacks of books, papers, even handwritten notes. As T’Challa comes even closer, he sees that they are all books on Wakanda, home authors. Works about their cities, infrastructure. Histories. Even the tomes of his forefathers, chronicles of the Black Panthers. How can Ross even attempt to read them? he wonders. They have never been written in any language but Xhosa. Hm. Knowing Shuri, she probably has a gadget or two that could help; he will ask her later.

It pleases him, knowing Ross is already intent on representing his people the right way. His Western reactions to Wakandan technology and culture will be crucial to estimating more...difficult perspectives, it’s true-- it’s why T’Challa created Ross’s position after all-- but the effort Ross is putting in to learn about his country...warms.

He clears his throat loudly enough to cut through the music and its singer's rasping lyrics. Ross stiffens immediately, straightening and turning with a soldier’s tensed reflex until he recognizes T’Challa for who he is and relaxes. The man chuckles a bit to himself, the sound muffled in the music, and Ross quickly taps a button on his computer’s screen to quiet it to a low murmur.

“Majesty,” he says, “Jesus, didn’t hear you come in.”

He looks tired, but not unhappy to see him. T’Challa’s grateful for that.

“Ambassador,” he greets, smiling when Ross lifts that wry eyebrow of his. It’s become a game of his, to use the man’s title as often as possible, just to make Ross give him that look. “You have angered my sister. Unwise.”

Ross cocks his head, brow furrowing. “I did?”

“Mmhm. She wants you to come to her lab for a check-up. She told me under no uncertain terms she expects to see you there, today.”

Ross makes a noise of understanding and rubs a hand through his hair. “Ah. Right, that. I’m feeling...great, really, she doesn’t have to-”

“She would be remiss if she didn’t follow up on your wellbeing, Everett. And my sister is rarely remiss.”

Ross raises both hands, shaking his head. “That’s not- I only meant she shouldn’t have to waste her no doubt _very_ valuable time checking me out when I’m clearly fine. Your technology has done wonders, really. Pretty sure my bad knee even got fixed up in the process, and it’s been bothering me since Afghanistan.”

“You are a friend and my advisor,” T’Challa says sternly. “You are worth her time.”

Ross blinks at him, a little taken aback, before sheepishness crawls across his face. “Yeah, okay, you’re right. I will see her later.”

T’Challa smiles. “Good. But you shall eat first.” He sets down his plate of food directly in front of the man, next to an empty mug and his pack of instant coffee.

“How did you know I haven’t...ah, you didn’t have to-”

T’Challa cuts him off. “This position is not an easy one, and you’re already putting in considerable effort, my friend. But you must take the time to care for yourself, as well. Arrange for proper meals or you will soon find yourself stuck with me at every one, forced to listen to Councilor Danib lecture me on our increasingly shrinking boundaries.”

Ross blinks. “Wakanda’s boundaries are shrinking?”

“No. Councilor Danib is a paranoid man who has always pushed for expansion. But his knowledge of our bordering countries is unquestioned, so I let him talk, for hope he reveals something actually important in his rants. Sometimes, it works.”

“Ah.” Ross smiles and shakes his head. “Well. I appreciate you taking the time out of your day to speak with me, Majesty. But I don’t want you to worry about-”

“Everett. Proper meals, or Councilor Danib?” T’Challa interrupts, and Ross chuckles.

“Okay, yes, proper meals. Though I doubt the occasional lunch with you wouldn’t be all that bad,” Ross says amiably.

“Councilor Danib is always that bad,” T’Challa quips, to hide his pleasure at the idea. “But perhaps the occasional lunch without him together could be pleasant. Free time in which you could talk to me about your adjustment, or ask me anything you would like to know.”

“You don’t know what you’re offering. The more I learn, the more questions I have.” Ross’s blue eyes glow neon as his head turns briefly towards to his computer screen, and one free hand meanders absently towards the plate of food. “There is so much to learn. Your country has made technological advances that I can scarcely comprehend, let alone categorize. Princess Shuri gave me these-" He lifts a pair of glasses that were sitting on the desk, rimmed with thick black frames, and T'Challa is briefly struck by the image of Ross wearing them, "And they translate everything I read into English so I can understand documents in Xhosi. They've been incredibly useful, and I can't stop reading. There's so much to..." Ross sighs. "Wakanda coming out into the open really is going to change the entire world.”

T’Challa watches quietly as Ross’s expression darkens, excitement sobering. “I hope we’ll be ready for it," he says. "Wakanda is going to go through some heat for this, for hiding. But the world is going to turn on its head trying to accept that a whole people, a whole world of science and ideas, has been here the whole time.”

T’Challa sighs heavily, as though it will rid his lungs of the weight building in his chest, on his shoulders. He sometimes thinks he’s going to sink through the floor beneath it. “They are not going to trust us," he says, bowing his head. "There will be anger. Fear.” _Hate._

His people are going to feel hate, the kind of which they’ve never experienced before. It makes his stomach turn. It makes him want to close Wakanda’s doors forever. Once, he wouldn’t have found it worth it. Now, he knows better-- that they cannot hide while people suffer beyond their walls-- but it does not make it easier, knowing his decision is going to bring hatred deeper and darker than history itself to his citizens.

“After the shock fades? Yeah, pretty much,” Ross agrees, smiling humorlessly. The serious look on his face, he’s sure, is an echo of his own expression. “My country can’t even protect its own people from that. But for Wakanda...” A breath gusts through his lips, and his voice turns apologetic. “To be honest with you? I think it’s going to be worse, in a different way.”

“Explain,” T’Challa says. The word is rock solid coming out of his mouth. _Your king voice,_ Shuri’s voice whispers in his ear. _When you sound like Abba._

Ross nods, a professional crispness working through his body and voice, the trained posture of a man used to reporting to a superior officers. “It’s not just that you’re a non-capitalist, well-funded, well-educated, and extensively resourced sovereign nation that has pretended to be a third-world country for its entire history,” he begins, counting on his fingers. “That kind of deception isn’t going to be forgiven, no matter how justified it was. Your country has some of the most advanced technology I have ever seen. Stark Industries, old Chautari scraps, hell, even Asgardian tech doesn’t touch the heights of progress you guys have reached in terms of military, medicine, and engineering.” A faint thread of wonder can be heard, even in Ross’s tight tone. “But there are more than a few assholes out there who are going to find all of this insult to injury when they realize _the most_ technologically advanced country in the world-- in maybe _several_ worlds-- is an African country.” Ross briefly kneads his temples. “Shit is going to rain down hard when that sinks in, and it’s not going to let up. It’s going to be nothing but lawyers, threats, and demands for the next couple of years. The UN is going to feel pressure from other countries to compel certain things from you: total compliance with international law, military inspections, new restrictions.”

Ross meets T’Challa in the eyes. “And they’re going to demand representation in Wakanda itself. The U.S. _definitely_ will, and so will the U.K., Russia, and China. They’re going to want people planted here and eyes on everything: on your tech, your economy, and sure as hell on your vibranium. Your military advisors, Okoye-- they’re right to start bolstering our defenses. It’s a worst case scenario, but some countries might demand total restriction of your vibranium stores-- in the form of seizure, or even occupation.”

T'Challa’s voice is steel. “That will never happen. My people would see it as an act of war. As would I.”

Ross sighs again. “I know. It would be. But that is a possible outcome, especially if people call for the restriction of vibranium on grounds of its potential for weaponization. People are going to act like Wakanda is sitting on a mountain of warheads.” He snorts. “And they’re definitely gonna want to see the nukes.”

“Wakanda does not have nuclear weapons,” T’Challa replies, filled with disgust at the notion. “We are a country of peace. And nuclear energy is both wasteful and inefficient.”

Ross laughs. “They didn’t believe Iran, and they aren’t going to believe you. A lot of countries-- like mine-- are going to equate your technology with military capacity, and for them, that means nukes.”

T’Challa finds himself leaning against the wall to the left of Ross’s desk, eyes closing. No matter how much of his education and experience has trained him for politics, it continually fails to become easier. He _abhors_ politics.

“But it won’t be all bad, you know.” Ross’s voice has lost its cool edge, reaching him with a reassurance that wasn’t there before. “I’m a perfect example.” He smiles, that wry smile T’Challa has grown too easily fond of. “Wakanda is going to do a lot of good when they come out into the open. For a lot of people.” The distance in his eyes is pushed away to make room for mirth, and he gestures with a turn of the chin to his computer, giving it a tap. It’s a video of children in a small park near the market district, doing tricks on their hoverbikes. “I mean, look at these things! I would have killed for one growing up!”

T’Challa laughs, and the darkness lurking in his mind clears. “Would you like to try one?”

“Don’t tempt me when I have all this to do, because if you offer me a ride on a hover bike, I’m going to take it,” Ross says, pointing a finger at him. He shakes his head, popping a grape in his mouth. “And...that’s hardly the first thing that’s blown my mind. Wakanda is like...it’s like what I imagined the future would look like when I watched sci-fi movies as a kid, It’s high tech, and your country is high production despite relatively low demand. Economically, I’m...speechless with your accomplishments. When the general population consumes a product, your businesses adapt and create new things instead of overproducing. The market is never oversaturated, so prices are never low enough for the creation of business oligarchies. Wages are perfectly adjusted to make living possible for everyone regardless of their career...You pay women and men equally. From what I’ve read of your census from last year, poverty is virtually unheard of, and your country’s unemployment rates are some of the lowest I’ve ever seen. And your _education_ system...is it true that you teach children English and Mandarin starting at age six?”

“The younger children are when they start to learn a language, the easier it is to retain,” T’Challa responds, smiling at the genuine excitement working through Ross’s body language, the interest skirting in his eyes and eager finger taps.

“I can’t even touch your environmental accomplishments,” Ross continues, one hand flipping through some of his notes and another bringing a small finger sandwich to his mouth. He bites down and swallows quickly, making a noise of approval. “You guys make Finland look like China. And your _medical_ advancements...when the world gets their hands on them, so many people will be helped-- not just with vibranium tech, but in your designs, in your treatments and medicines...From what I’ve seen, Princess Shuri has done an incredible amount of work in that field, among several other accomplishments. She’s a certified genius,” he says wonderingly, and T’Challa is filled with pride. Yes. Shuri is.

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear your opinion of her work when you see her later today,” he hums. “But don’t lay it on too thick. She can get a big head sometimes.”

“She’s more than earned one,” Ross says. “I mean, just her work with your, your dust technology-” Ross waggles his fingers in the air, making T’Challa bite down on a grin.

“Vibranium holofibers.”

“ _Right,_ ” Everett says emphatically. “I’ve never seen that kind of technology before. How your scientists managed to figure out how to make it shift and move, command it into color and mimic programs, even control it remotely...” He laughs disbelievingly. “Hell, it’s...it’s _magic._ ”

“The world is full of many mysteries yet to be understood,” T’Challa agrees. “We’ve barely scratched the surface of all that vibranium alone can do.”

Ross nods, leaning back in his seat. A breath passes through his lips. “You’re telling me. I thought I saw some crazy shit in the CIA. All of this makes American tech look like third grade science fair projects. I can’t _wait_ to see Tony Stark’s face when some of Shuri’s designs go public.” He purses his lips. “But alien tech...supers, mutations...gods falling out of the sky, new science from different worlds, even _real_ magic from that people like that Strange guy who cropped up in New York...Everything is changing, so damn fast, it’s a wonder any of us mere mortals can keep up.”

“Humans are a fairly resilient race,” T’Challa says, hearing his own concerns in Ross’s words, but also hearing the promise in them. “With every obstacle we overcome, the more we progress. The more the world becomes a better place.”

“...Right.” The faint anxiety fades from Ross’s expression as he glances up at T’Challa, warmth on his face. “You know, you’re one hell of a man, Your Majesty. Wakanda is about to shake up the world in a big way, and...” Everett hesitates briefly, before looking up to meet T’Challa’s eyes. “Your people are lucky to have a leader like you calling the shots.”

The sincerity in Ross’s words gives immediate life to something in T’Challa’s chest, movement and quiet heat and fondness coiling and winding around his ribcage. “Your confidence in my abilities in enheartening, Ross,” he says lowly. His eyes flicker away, his mind moving past the palace walls. Past the borders, to where things beyond his reckoning lie unseen. Demons and change and progress. All lingering at the edge until his next moves, all waiting for him to choose. To make a mistake.

Not for the first time, he feels very ill-prepared. He hopes, so desperately for fear of what will happen should he fail, that he can lead his people into a new age of prosperity. That he can protect them from what will come.

“Your Majesty,” he hears, tearing him from stormy thoughts, and the smile on Ross’s face is reassuring. His eyes, bright in the panes of sunlight passing through the room’s tall windows, are calm. Not exactly like the ritual falls, he thinks, revising his past thought. More similar to the river basin far below, where the rapids still and lap onto the dark brown sand. They’re calm, steady. Reliable, clear enough to reflect the sun, to burn white yellow in the shallows and to darken to sapphire where the sand banks fall away to farther depths...

“It isn’t faith,” Everett says to him, making him blink, refocus. “Your people believe in you because you’ve proved you’re willing and capable of fighting for them. You’re their king because of your actions, not circumstance. You’re their...protector, their Black Panther, and their capable ruler both.” His lips tip up. “Even an outsider like me can see there is no one who could rule Wakanda better than you.”

“...Oh,” he says. His voice is a little hoarse, and his heartbeat is loud in his ears. “I..”

Gods. He’s freezing. _Again._ He blurts out his next words, and hopes desperately he doesn’t sound half-strangled. “Thank you.”

Why? Why _now?_ he thinks, distantly horrified.

Luckily, Ross doesn’t seem notice. “I should be thanking you, after all, Majesty. In retrospect, my work with the agency hadn’t been...filling me with the same patriotism it used to.” Ross’s eyes cut briefly away, the line of his mouth grim. “The vibranium buyout with Klaue was the end of long line of increasingly questionable attempts for the U.S. to catch up to changing stakes. Few years ago I wouldn't have thought myself capable of leaving, not after years in the service. Too much of a soldier, wanted to be where the action was." Ross huffed an rueful breath. "Like I need the help getting into trouble. But really, I...I’m really looking forward to working with you, Your Majesty. With your people. To have the chance to make a real difference, to be a part of _real,_ positive change.” The gravity in Ross’s face has transformed into a form of cautious optimism, hope filtering through his voice and leaving him looking about ten years younger, and then T’Challa thinks, _oh._

“I hope you are right,” T’Challa says quietly. “And I am glad that that you have decided to stay. But you are always welcome to go, whenever you wish. I do not want obligation to be the only thing tying you here.”

“It isn’t. But even if I did decide to leave...I wouldn’t return to the Agency.” Ross smirks. “They wouldn’t take me back, anyway. My resignation didn’t exactly go...smoothly. When I refused to further explain what happened after you brought me here, and why I wasn’t coming back, they threatened to drag me back and get the answers out of me that way. I wished them good luck in finding me, and hung up before they could even try to track the call. Not that they could have, if they wanted. Would have loved to see them try, though.”

T’Challa frowns. “They wouldn’t be so foolish to attempt to try to place you in custody when we go to New York?”

Ross shakes his head. “Not when they see I’m with you, and not when they learn of my position in your cabinet. They may be inclined to recklessness, but the Agency isn’t stupid enough to start any international incident, even if I am an American citizen. Diplomatic immunity still applies, and I was within my legal rights to leave the Agency. But..just to be safe, I would recommend some additional...protection, for all the ambassadors. No one ever accused the U.S. government of being the most rational of actors.”

T’Challa nods. “It is already arranged, but I will inform Okoye to look out for Americans in particular.” Ross snorts, and T’Challa cracks a grin.

“Have you spoken to her since your appointment?” he asks innocently.

“Not outside our meetings,” Ross admits. “I pretty much start running when I see her walking down the hallways.”

T’Challa barks out a laugh. “She will corner you eventually,” he warns, grinning.

“Ah. I fear that day.”

T’Challa laughs harder. “As well you should, my friend.”

“She’s one hell of a general, your Majesty.”

“She is the best of all of my guard and my standing army,” T’Challa agrees. “I’ve yet to see a man or woman best her in combat.”

“Not even you?” Ross asks, brow lifting in curiosity.

T’Challa smiles proudly at the idea and the man’s evaluation of his skill, but shakes his head. “She’s the one who trains me, whenever she has the time. She’s an unrelenting teacher.”

“I’m sure,” Ross grunts, both wary and impressed, and T’Challa smirks. But his eyes find their way to the clock on Ross’s computer display, and he sighs.

“I’m afraid I must attend my next meeting, Everett,” he says, straightening, and Ross nods.

“Right, of course. Your schedule is packed, I bet.”

“You bet correctly,” T’Challa said tiredly. He inclines his head in farewell as he moves to go. “Until next time, Ambassador. Perhaps I will drag you to my next meal with Councilor Danib, just so I don’t have to suffer alone.”

“Your Majesty is too kind,” Ross deadpans, and T’Challa chuckles.

“Do not forget to visit my sister, or she will skin the both of us alive.”

“You got it, Majesty.”

T’Challa lifts an eyebrow, feeling mischievous as he pauses at the door. “You know, Everett, you are welcome to call me by my name in private.”

Ross turns to look at him, blinking in surprise, before shaking his head.

“And risk Okoye hearing?” he asks. “With all due respect, your Majesty, I’d rather live.”

T’Challa laughs his way out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya'll T'Challa's the cutest man alive wtfff his lighthearted scenes in the film gave me life  
> next chappie: New York, the UN, Ross's POV, and some familiar faces.
> 
> disclaimer: my political knowhow is pitiful at best. it's hard as hell to think about politics regarding nonexistent countries, tech, and resources, but if i ever misrepresent something in reality, hmu
> 
> *EDIT* okay, so i've received some comments on this fic expressing some concern and anger with this story, and they've got me thinking-- this movie is really important for a lot of reasons, most particularly for its black representation and characters. is writing a fic where ross is a representative of wakanda (however singular) antithetical to the message of this film? if it is, that's definitely not something i want to perpetuate. i don't want to be some white chick who completely overlooks the importance of a work or the racial dynamics represented within it just to write a story about a ship, yk? that's not what i want to do and the idea that i could be dismissing this film's importance through my writing is nauseating. hence, why this fic hasn't received any updates since i posted it. it might not be put aside forever, and i may go back and rework this story to be more appropriate, but for now, i'm hesitant to continue it for concern that my work is inherently problematic and privileged, no matter how lighthearted my intentions are within the story or with the characters, so consider it on hiatus.
> 
> if anyone wants to discuss this at length or has questions about my decision pls leave a comment below or hmu, thanks so much for reading, guys <3

**Author's Note:**

> This is the beginning of a story currently in the works that will take place post-Black Panther, pre-Infinity War, because I want to have old characters meet the amazing new ones of BP, but also explore more of Wakanda's transition to the modern world. Also...I wanted more T'Challa. So here.


End file.
